amor est vitea essentia
by foreveryourstar
Summary: an ancient day story, set in PreDelian league Sparta
1. Chapter 1

_Written in response to a silly idea and a lot of wine, this is an AU story of Michaela and Sully set in Sparta. My focus at university was Ancient Mediterranean law codes with a focus in Sparta. While the names have remained the same for the sake of the readers, I have knowingly manipulated history to coincide with this silly story._

Conflicted emotions stirred within him as he looked upon the terrain before him. The grand city lay a swift ride away, the closest he had been to it in over half a decade. There was no sense of homesickness, no compelling to run towards it with love or even hatred. Whatever it had been, it had not been home. Whatever it had held for him, the pleasant memories were few, far between, and marred by the existence of something that perverted all of the glimpses of his childhood. The red colour of the dyed fabric waved in the wind.

Whether it was waving hello or goodbye, he wasn't certain. The colour of blood. The colour of manliness – that was why they wore it. The colour of power.

Why in the names of the Gods did he return? He had run away from his past at the tender age of thirteen, with no intent upon returning ever. The healer-priest at the oracle had told him to return, the man whose name in Babylonian translated into "Dances with Clouds." He had told him to return to the place of his birth. A prophecy had to be fulfilled and nothing could be released from his past until he returned to his father's homeland, his homeland, to claim his future.

He had been sceptical at first. There was nothing left for him at his place of birth. Never had he felt at home. And that first time that he had stepped upon the field which would be his work location for the rest of his days, he could not believe that the Fates had deemed it necessary for him to be among his fellowmen in such a way. The most prominent career choice for men of his breeding and stamina held no desire for him. But here he was, once again. It was even easy to get back. He had stopped at his mother's farm, a five day's ride away, and still he managed to return earlier than he had anticipated. Poseidon's winds were pushing him towards this place, driving his horse with a determination that the man could not fathom.

Examining the rocks and ledges that surrounded him, he looked for a place in which he could live. Give his training that much credit – he knew how to survive, even if he did not want to. The days were warmer, but the nights still cold. He would need shelter at the very least.

The cold did not affect him. Nor the heat. The same garment that he wore in the winter was the same that he wore in the summer. And while he preferred to sleep under the heavy raindrops and wake to the morning dew crisping against his skin, Herakles the horse did not agree with such living conditions.

The sound of his foot crunching against the plants as he hiked a bit higher up was the only resonance among the death-like area. Seeds, rocks, insects, he would walk on anything, and yet he wore no shoes. Men from his training did not wear shoes. They weakened the man, or so the philosopher-king had said. No shoes, the earth made a fine callous in which to serve as a sole. Despite having left five years ago, there were still some habits he could not break and the toughened skin he could not bare to soften with a genuine leather hide.

Maybe that was why it was easy to come back. Or tolerable. He wanted nothing more than to disassociate himself with the civilisation that had raised him, yet he still could fight like one of them, train like one of them, eat and drink like one of them. Talk, think, insult, the Laconic way.

The bright azure eyes closed as the wind brought his trained nose the smell of the people that lived so close to him physically, yet so far away from him in every other meaning of the word. The long, lighter coloured hair helped him stand out among the crowd. Northern blood, the nurse had said. And the eyes were Hebrew blood. Proof he had been here when the Hebrew started their civilisation, all those years ago after he had left his tribes when the people had left the land of the Pharaohs.

A sense of peace seemed to wash over him, but only a fool would believe it was anything but anxiety.

"Hello, Sparta." 

_Thirty more seconds,_ she thought to herself. _Thirty, nine and twenty, eight and twenty, seven and twenty_… The numbers went over and over again, until she hit fifteen. It was at that point that she could not press herself anymore and the copper-haired body collapsed onto the well-worn road to the top of the mountain. She grunted upon the impact, though not in pain.

She was not permitted to feel pain, or at the very least express it. Indeed, she was not intended to feel. She would never cry in pain. Nor in heartbreak. Nor anything.

It was a simple reasoning. Spartan woman did not cry.

The warmth of the copper-laced liquid that was pooling on her knee was only an afterthought to the rapid beating against her chest. She felt as if she could not breathe, her mind so muddled that the very basic human functions which were necessary for survival seemed to be overshadowed by the feeling of someone piercing her heart.

It was a dark day in Hades when Artemis had not protected the young girl a heart problem. No matter the sacrifices performed by her mother and father, she could never train with the other girls as she wanted. She could never fight, run, spar as they could. The metaphysical heart was in it, but her body was not capable of keeping up with her.

Of course her mother had informed her that she had wronged the gods in the womb. Her father had been only slightly more understanding, a remarkable demonstration of emotion which was rare. He believed that the pains in her heart meant something more. Something deeper.

That was why Michaela, daughter of Josef of Quinn, the second king of Sparta with Nikadros, spent her time learning the healing arts for both the battlefield and the red tent.

_There is nothing wrong with having healing hands in Lacedaemonia. To keep life, even when death is glorious, it is not a bad thing. _That was what her father had said.

_This had better not be an indication to your failure to perform your sole duty to your country. _Her mother had meant childbirth. It was spoken in the true compassion which Michaela had expected from her matriarch.

Before the battle in Argolis five years ago, Josef had said to his wife that if he died, she was to marry and bear more children. Her mother had said to her father that he was to come back with his shield or on it.

Every Spartan wife and mother said that to their husband and sons. To give up one's shield meant surrender. And it was known throughout the whole of the Peloponnesus that the Spartans did not surrender.

The battle had been a slaughter. It was a glorious victory, and many soldiers had found their mortality against the ill numbers and barbarians from the North. Josef, who had been leading the men, was among them.

Such occurrences were why Sparta had two kings among the twenty-eight counsel members. Josef had no male heirs and the next in line had taken his place. And just as her father commanded, Elizabeth remarried and gave birth to the sons that she never gave Josef. Three to the king, and one to his general whose wife was past the years of childbearing and had not blessed him with an heir.

Another Spartan custom. The essential act of sharing one's wife was not looked down upon. Michaela had once heard from an Athenian emissary that the Spartan women were considered "adulterers." She had no idea as to what this meant. The wife of the Athenian woman had asked her mother how it was that Spartan woman could speak in such a bold manner to her husband.

_Because only Spartan women give birth to real men_, had been her reply.

Despite having been a princess in her own right, Michaela had no desire for suitors. In Athens, she had been told, the wealth was amazing. One could be starving, one could throw money away. Then again, the very concept of money was difficult to understand, as was the concept of starving. Did the Athenians not have Helots in which to tend to the fields? No. And money? Did they not share? No. Athens was completely different from Sparta. There was no universalisable Greek Concept.

If she had lived in Athens, she probably would have died of childbirth by now. Her husband would neglect her for little boys and prepubescent girls. In Sparta, she was challenged physically and mentally.

More so mentally. She felt as if she had been poisoned directly over her heart.

_One, two, three, four, five six, seven, eight, nine, ten._ She repeated over and over again. Eventually, the pain in her chest weakened and she was able to see past it in order to stand. She was grateful that there was no one around to see her fall. A twig was caught in her hair, which she pulled out and threw dejectedly onto the ground where the imprint of her body would be invisible come morning. Spitting the bitter taste out of her mouth, she looked up. There was no pain in her thighs and legs. The rest of her body yearned for more.

But her heart. It couldn't keep up with her.

A sound startled her from behind. Snapping to attention, she controlled her breathing to listen. Was it an animal? She could smell nothing, but she was upwind of where the sound had come from. Listen. No more steps. Most animals were not conscious of a step on a twig. A human? It was a training road. The younger boys had to run up it. They were not allowed to slow or walk or jog, but a true sprint was required to the top. But they normally came in groups and she had rarely see a single person on the road. That was why she preferred it – the solitude from the house, her mother, her mother's husband, her "siblings", her nurses, the other girls. Katarine was with a child and the midwives swore it to be a boy. That was suffocating in and of itself.

Reaching down slowly, she grasped a rock and held it in a position which would give her two advantages. Upon the throwing with her weak hand, which subsequently would give her a better aim, the stronger arm could come against and attack and prepare the throwing arm to be used in defence. The multitude of potential attacks had already rushed through her mind. It was no different than when she healed – a multitude of outcomes and she would formulate the correct course of treatment to injured person.

She did not speak. Patience was taught to her no matter what and she waited. The feeling of someone watching her pressed into her skull and she moved silently, slowly around the area. Right before she completed the circle, she saw eyes in the bushes before her.

Bright, blue eyes. It was a spell, surely. No one had eyes like that in Sparta. A jinx, the curse of some god, something, but these eyes could not belong to a mere mortal. Something she had once seen in a dream.

"Michaela!" Came a voice from behind her, snapping her out of the trance as she looked over her shoulder.

David's head poked up above the rocks as he came into view, the white tunica wrapped around his war-hardened figure. He was older than her by six summers, and he had the scars to prove it. His first battle had been the one that had claimed the life of her father and since then he had decided to take it upon himself to watch over her. Not as a brother or father but as a dog who watched over a bone that he had already claimed but had yet to bite into.

She had no desire to have him ever taste her.

"What are you doing here?" She snapped, irritated that she had not been left to deal with the eyes of the gods alone, or at least a potential fighter.

"I should be asking that of you. You look as though…" He stopped and examined the slightly reddened face, the sweat that clung to her skin. "You have been running again, haven't you?"

"So what if I have?" Irritated by her weakness and his sudden arrival, she glared at him through the multicoloured eyes. The gods had claimed her, or so the priests had said. They wanted her to serve the gods. She had decided upon her own path.

After all, she was never keen on becoming a prophetess. It had done little good for Cassandra of Troy.

"Your father wants you. Emissaries from Cyprus have arrived and you are to look presentable."

"He is not my father," she growled lowly, but David did not hear. Raising her voice slightly, she rolled her shoulders back and looked at him with the convection of her father's blood. "So what if they are?"

David was irritated. "You could pretend you care about your country."

"The only concern of the Cypriotes which I prefer to worry myself with is their goddess."

"The goddess of love," David's eyes reflected amusement.

"The same goddess who was the consort of the Hebrew god in Mesopotamia." She walked towards David, stopping as she spoke the next sentence. "She had a belt made of the hands of her former lovers."

"We need to have word," David began.

"I am sure that you will fascinate yourself. Or, if you are not willing to listen, ask your friend. Preston always hangs on every word you say."

With that, she walked without him towards the capital of Lacedaemonia.

Multicoloured eyes. When she had first come up the side of the mountain in the afternoon air, he had been stricken dumb, afraid to breathe for fear of the air to sweep her away.

He had seen her collapse. Falling to the ground and her carefully knotted hair splaying across the moss and dirty covered rocks. What was she doing? This was the running rock for the boys and girls. She was beyond these years and the fact that she was alone had confused him. Had the gods deemed that one of their own would fall? But he had foolishly moved and he saw the concentration, the agility, all of it despite the obvious fatigue that was attempting to battle for the right of being in control of her. A Spartan woman, through and through.

When the male had arrived, he had pulled back silently. Grateful for being upwind of both of them, he listened. He could not help but crack a smile at her mention of Aphrodite. If only she knew how they would celebrate Adonis' death and resurrection near Pathos. The concern of the man over her physical wellbeing reminded Sully of a Spartan soldier concerning himself with his shield. A dent? Oh, that was fine. But nothing to compromise the integrity of it's strength. The man made Sully feel uncomfortable; he was a reminder of why he could never live this life again. Sighing, he pulled back. He had claimed her through tone and body language and some strange feeling of hope that Sully could not explain. He flinched when that emotion surged through, but at her reaction to David's words, he felt hope.

Maybe the Cypriotes and their goddess knew more than he was willing to let on.


	2. Chapter 2

Michaela stared out at the night, the red cloth wrapped around her body in a fashionable way serving as armour against the world around her. The hours had passed as though days, each moment more frustrating than the one before. David telling her what to do, how to wear her hair. Her mother coming in and informing her of the same. Only her nurse had granted her some comfort, helping her plait her hair in a manner that was comfortable. Soon, her presence would be required in the courtyard. The Cypriotes had been guests for a week and every night she had been expected to appear.

_Must display myself properly_, she thought bitterly. She closed her eyes and once again, the only thought that was not adulterated by hatred for her position, for her life at that moment, for her king and her mother, came into her mind. Not a thought; a memory. The piercing blue eyes that she had seen on the hill the week before.

What creature did they belong to? Were they truly human? She still fancied that they had belonged to a demigod. No human she had ever seen had been granted eyes with such intense colour. Nor with that type of compassion. Perhaps it was a god, one that felt sorry for her situation. Perhaps the eyes were to give her hope. Perhaps they meant to warn her against her death.

Perhaps they were nothing more than a figment of her imagination. And no god took sympathy on her.

"Excuse me, miss?" The voice reiterated. In her reverie, she had become oblivious to her nurse requesting her attention.

"Yes?" Physically shaking her head to remove the memory of the eyes.

"I'm sorry to bother you. It's Lysistra. Her son, in the !!!!!!!!. He was injured and the healers did nothing for him. She has come… well…"

Michaela nodded knowingly. The healers that attended the Agoge were atrocious at best. When the boy left his mother at the age of seven and entered the Agoge for training purposes, it was a difficult time for both the mother and the child. Add in the fact that the healers and trainers made the transition less than difficult, and one could assume that proper Spartan soldiers were being cultivated. A boy was hiding his captured fox one day and the fox killed him before he would ever think to confess. He shouldn't have died – she knew that if given the opportunity, she could have saved him. But such was not the Spartan way of life. As for Lysistra, she would keep her mouth quiet about the princess's assistance with her son. The boy had recently left his mother and would keep his mouth quite as well.

"I will come immediately," she reacted, reaching for a bag which held her various herbs and she followed her nurse, disregarding the fact that her presence would be required before she could ever possibly return.

Down the streets of Sparta, she rushed. The syssita still had the words of the men echoing out of the building, many of them heckling those who were entertaining the palace guests. Such was the way of the syssita Heckling one another. It was their mess hall, the barracks for the men, until the age of thirty. Even when married, they slept there and not with their wives. Her path was lit only by the moon, for no torch was lit. Once the men were done eating, if they wanted to bed their wives, if they wanted to leave, they had to be sober enough to find their way home in the dark. Always training, always practising, always living on edge. Michaela believed that if they were forced to relax, they might actually die of insanity. Or kill one another as a result of their insanity. Regardless, she knew the way to the building where Lysistra and her son, Aristophanes, were patiently waiting for her.

Upon her arrival, she looked at the scene before her. The child was not hurt. He was practically mauled. Blood was pouring from his side, and it appeared as though another healer had shoved an herb inside without cauterising it.

"Who did this? This was not the work of another boy." She kneeled beside the crying boy, wooden splinters sticking out of his skin where he had been stabbed.

"Lycurgus, of course. He is rough on the boys who have seen summers. Let alone on the boys who just left home. I would say to send him to battle, but he seems to be worse when he comes back." Somehow, Lysistra managed to breathe out the explanation, attempting to hold back her tears as she pulled the white cloth away from his wound while the female healer kneeled beside her.

"I despise Lycurgus," Michaela glowered, reaching to start a fire in the pit nearby. "He ought to be sent off to the East." The stone cracked together until the sparks caught the dry grass. A small knife was withdrawn from its sheath and placed inside the fire to become hot. She examined the wound, pulling the useless herb away.

"Will he live?" Lysistra asked. Michaela could see the fear in her eyes. When the Great Lycurgus set forth the rules of Sparta, the man whom the practical slave driver was named for, he had failed to take into consideration the love of a mother for her child. No matter how much she struggled to maintain a laconic composure, Lysistra was gripping the white tunica so hard that her knuckles became pale.

She should answer honestly. Give her the truth. Instead, Michaela regarded her quickly and gave her the compassion and hope that the mother within Lysistra needed. "I do not know. But he is strong, like his mother. Aren't you, Aristophanes?"

The little boy nodded his head, clumsily wiping away the tears from his eyes so the princess would not see them and report them to the king. He could not be weak.

Michaela reached for a bit of wood and pressed it between the boy's teeth. The knife was hot now, blackened from the flame, and before the boy could comprehend what was happening, the healer pushed the blade against his skin, cauterising the wound as the pungent smell of burning flesh and blood infiltrated their senses. Lysistra clung to her son's hand as he convulsed with the pain, biting down hard on the bit of wood in his mouth while tears streamed down his dirty face.

Soon, he calmed in the physical sense and Michaela placed a poultice on his side to help ease the pain. "You are a brave boy, Aristophanes. I have seen great warrior weep like children at the breast during such a treatment. You did not run away." Running her fingers through his thick, black hair, she gave him a reassuring smile. "Your mother should be proud."

"What would you know of pride for a child?" A voice came behind her. She recognised the tone before he made his appearance and David walked out of the shadows to look upon her. "What do you think you are doing? Your king has been made to be a fool because you did not appear when he announced you!"

Defiance flashed over her eyes and the blood-soaked hands were wiped on a nearby towel. Her shoulders were rolled back, her posture holding to the pride of a woman who had been the pinnacle of years of physical and emotional strength expected of her kind. When she looked upon David, however, she looked down her nose at him. As a princess, even a disregarded on, would do.

"I was healing a future soldier for our kingdom," she spoke easily. No wavering nor cracking, her heart began to calm at that.

"It is for the best, David," a woman's voice came behind him. "Being as she is defiant enough to refuse to marry or birth sons for Sparta, assuming she could even do such a thing, it is best she save those that have already been brought from the womb."

"Hello, Mother."

The older woman, dressed in the red robes, stepped into the light and grasped her daughter's wrist. "Come," she hissed. "You must make apologies to your king."

"Only him," she sighed. "It's not my fault he was left to rule instead of being the one lucky enough to fight."

"Insolence!" The woman growled and drew her hand across Michaela's cheek. David watched, slight amusement on his eyes, as the pale cheek reddened at the impact. But it was receive no differently than if the matriarch had verbally slapped her. No tears, no acknowledgement of the abuse. Instead, Michaela drew her hand out of her mother's grasp and walked towards the palace with no regard for those around her.

She entered palace and went towards her stepfather's chambers. Her shoulders were still squared back as she approached the cloth that separated his private area from the bed that he shared with her mother. One of the Cypriotes gave a great smirk to her as he departed, and she was only vaguely aware of the fact that David and her mother remained within earshot behind the linen cloth.

"Stepdaughter." His voice was not gentle, no softness in acknowledgement of the fact that she was, in a way, a daughter. It was as if he was addressing his general.

"You requested my presence, my king." She would never call him father; she never had. Josefeus had been her father; Josef and not this man before her.

"How dare you insult my presence, our people, with your continuing impertinence. The audacity to leave the palace to attend to a boy, one that is not your jurisdiction! And when you are to represent your country! The audacity!"

"Any person – man, woman, child, whether in the agoge or not – who needs my help will receive it. Your guests hardly missed my presence."

He growled slightly. "I ought to marry you off to one of my guests. Perhaps they would manage to put your in your place."

She could hardly exert the self control necessary to not roll her eyes. "Come now, my king. You know that if there was any man to put me in my place, it would have to be a Spartan."

An actual guffaw escaped his lips at this statement, throwing his head back at her continued disrespect. "Stay away from the agoge boys. Present yourself tomorrow. You will not insult my place again."

She detested it when he spoke to her this way. "I will go where healing is needed. If you would actually bring forth men who would teach the boys to fight…"

"Do not presume to tell me how to conduct my kingdom."

"It was my father's before it was ever yours!"

It was as though a silence had surrounded the whole of the kingdom. David and her mother both inhaled and waited for what would happen. The king did not move. He was not supposed to have been king. True, he was the closest one to receive the crown upon the death of Josef, as both of Josef's brothers had died in war and the three other cousins that stood in line were also lost to battles. It had been suspicious to many, but when the queen had agreed to marry him upon the death of Josef, the talk had quieted down and the talk was forgotten except by the most suspicious, the most paranoid, and many who had been close to the late king.

The proverbial Akhilles heel for the supposed descendent of Herakles. He hated anyone to talk about it.

When the seconds of silence turned into minutes, the barely audible steps of her mother and David retreating were the only sounds that could be discernable to the ears of the defiant young woman and egotistical king.

"And your father is dead," he growled, finally stepping towards her and placing his hands around her throat. Michaela reacted and swung her body up and landed on his feet. It made him stumble slightly, but it was enough to draw her elbows over his arms and down and provoke his grip to be lost. She ducked down and turned to run away from him. He reached for her tunica and managed to grasp enough of it to pull her back, in which he drew his hand across her face. The force of her mother had been a mosquito's bite compared to this, her body succumbing to the pain for a moment as she went limp closed her eyes. Reaching for anything that was laying on the table, she found a cup and slammed it against his head. He growled and with the sound of her tunica ripping, she fell out of his grasp and ran out of the room.

Her feet were possessed. The way was known and she heard him hollering behind her. _Run away, run away, get away, run run run run run_… The voice in her head dictated every step. Even in the darkness of night, she knew her footing. Each rock, each stone, each pebble. Out of the city walls, she ran towards the hill, towards the training road. She had no explanation as to why she was driven to go there, but she went.

_If the gods do exist,_ she cried out in her head. _If you can hear me, please… show mercy. Let me get away._

Her heart was hurting. She could feel it, the moment of when it would give in and she would collapse was drawing near. The sounds of people chasing after her had dissipated as they gave up, for she was only a woman, even if a Spartan one. But she kept running.

Past the place where she normally gave out, she made it to the end. There, she collapsed unceremoniously, desperately attempting to suck in the air and make the pain in her heart go away. But it hurt so badly, the tears gave in and she felt the tears stream down her cheeks. There was a sound behind her, and she cried out.

"Go away!"

But it wasn't a Spartan. The four paws crunched the debris below them and she turned to look upon the lion. There was no spear, no rock, nothing that she could throw at him. By the looks of things, he had been hurt before. And he was hungry. And angry.

"This is their mercy?" She whispered aloud, closing her eyes as the lion sniffed and came closer. "This is the best they can do?"

Her heart was panicking, now. It hurt. She wanted to pass out, but some part of her managed to find the strength to stay awake to seek out her death. She would not die and be numb to the pain. It was a fool's way out.

She waited and counted. _One, two three…_

But four never came.

The sound of a spear piercing the flesh of the lion forced her eyes open and she looked. A man came out of the side, a sword in his hand and easily managed the metal up into the rib cage of the lion. The lion swiped out and hit his chest. But it was a deathly blow and soon groaned as it collapsed on the ground.

He breathed heavily, his back towards her, and she looked at him. He straightened and turned slowly.

The last thing she saw before falling into unconsciousness were the blue eyes that she had seen the week before.


	3. Chapter 3

The young woman had plagued his mind, his very dreams ever since he had seen her that day on the rock. Hiding in the mountains that were near the Lacedaemonian capital, Sully watched. Since he was not certain as to why he was there to begin with, he merely observed the lives before him, silent when the young men ran by and quietly spying when he dared at night within the city walls. He had hoped to see her again, but for the week she had not returned and he was starting to wonder if she hadn't been an illusion.

There was a lion lurking around the last day or so. Hungry, tired. He once heard an oracle say that some day, all the lions in the Peloponnesus would be gone after a great civilisation. One from the west. Most people had scuffed at the prospect, but he wondered if it wasn't true. He had avoided the creature, for it did no harm to him. The evening campfire ensured that it remained far away from his form as he slept and he figured that the training would eventually scare the creature off.

After a week, Sully was growing anxious. Every day he watched the training before him, every day he waited. The Ephors were still up to their tricks, nothing new was there. But he waited. Something had to happen. Then he had heard the lion move.

The sound of a rushing human had distracted the hungry creature, which of course took Sully's interest. Would the Spartan kill the animal? Claim him as a prize? It would hardly surprise him.

But he had been surprised. There she was. The young woman from before. Her collapsed form caused him to jump when he realised that the hungry creature had found something in which to satiate it's long denied appetite. He did not recall attacking the creature, or killing it. The fact that he was injured was hardly cause for concern. Picking up the woman, he carried her to his hiding place and set her down as her breathing attempted to return to normal in her unconscious state. He found the animal skin that gave him warmth and covered her body with it before reaching for the gourd of water and pouring some of the cool liquid into his hand. He rubbed it on her forehead, figuring that it would help make her feel better. Or hoped it would. Falling onto a rock nearby, he vaguely became aware of the pain, watching her. Soon he released that the wounds went deep in places and the warmth of his chest was blood.

She struggled against her unconscious state and when she felt the water upon her head, she wondered if she wasn't on the boat to death. Had the lion killed her and given her a sweet death? The blue eyed being had been the one to take her away to Hades? But the reminder of her weakened heart burned against her chest as she stirred and knew that there was still mortality to be faced. Opening the unique, multicoloured eyes, she coughed and looked at the person who stared so intently at her.

"You're hurt," was the first thing she said, her throat hoarse with the reminder of her physical failure.

"I am fine," he contested, becoming more aware of the blood that dripped down his chest and stained his simple clothing. "You need to rest."

"I'll be fine," she replied stubbornly, moving to assist him. "I'll rest after I bind your wounds. Do you have any other cloth?"

He shook his head in response, watching her curiously. She did not demand an explanation. She demanded nothing, as he would have expected a Spartan woman. He noticed her hair. Full, beautiful, long. She had not yet been a bride, forced to shave her head the day that her husband took her. Was she a priestess, then? But she did not bear the marks or jewellery of a priestess. Unable to properly speak, he merely watched her as she tore at her dress to procure several long strips of cloth. Being Spartan, she would have had no modesty, but he was amazed by the fact that she did not defiantly wait for him to inquire. Instead, she was focused completely at the task at hand, possessed by a goddess to heal him.

Her hand moved to the fire and she looked for something. Every time his eyes blinked, she felt it for her body was spared the penetrating gaze. When she tore at her skirt, it gave her something to completely focus on, but she could still feel him. She felt no shame for the fact that more of her legs were shown. She had trained in the nude. But she still felt revealed, as if she was compensating for the fact that he had seen her in her weakness. She hated it when people saw her collapsed and vulnerable. That was why she trained alone.

"Why did you save my life?" She asked, her eyes searching for metal so she could cauterise the wound, but also to avoid looking at him. She found some mud and scooped it onto a rock and placed it near him.

"What?" he was shaken out of his reverie, looking at her in a confused state. How could he not save her?

"Why did you save my life?" She finally looked at him, and the silence passed as though mere seconds to hours while they sought the unspoken answers to the unarticulated questions in their eyes.

He moved slightly and was forced to drop his gaze in a flinch, wincing at the pain. He watched as she shook her head and found his short blade, placing it over the fire to warm. "Once it is hot enough, I'll tend to the wound," she whispered, ashamed at her bold gaze, even for a Spartan woman. She was frantically moving things around, as if to avoid what had happened.

Reaching down, he grasped her hands and held them in the cool air. His touch was warm and she stopped, sitting back on her heels and closing her eyes. "Thank you. For saving my life."

"You're welcome." It was soft, a caress of words. It was only with these that she found the courage to reach into the water and wet the bit of cloth to wash his wound.

Aphrodite. That damned goddess! It was her fault! She never felt anything for men, except what was necessary. And now? Now him? This man that she did not know nor could ever comprehend knowing? He was not a Spartan soldier; whoever he was, he did not wear the red. She reached for the cloth once again and placed it over the deepest part of his wounds and he hissed at the feel of her fingers over his skin. He closed his eyes as she looked up to steal a glance, and she let her fingers linger over his tight skin a little longer than necessary. His skin was injured in different ways. Not with wounds of battle but something different. Small scars here and there, his hands calloused different from the soldiers. They made her curious and she regarded them with a gentle inquiry while he opened his eyes once more.

"Working," he said, reading her mind.

"Excuse me?"

He indicated to the scars and his strangely calloused hands. "They are from working, instead of the fighting scars you are used to. No stab wounds; they are different."

The sword was hot enough and she reached for the blade with one hand while the other pushed away the shoulder wrap of his tunic to reveal more of his chest. She was shocked by his muscular appearance and tried not to stare. Giving him a bit of wood, she indicated that he put it in his mouth. She could stare later, while dressing the wound. "To bite down upon."

He quickly complied and he groaned as the blade was placed against the top of wound, where it was deepest. Pulling it away, she poured the wine over the wound, trying not to think of the sounds of pain that he tried to hide. Once she was done, she pulled the stick away from his mouth and drew his body down.

"You have never had a wound sealed in such a way, have you?" He answered with the shake of his head. "It is hard the first time. But you did well." She gave him the wine and bade him to drink, his hair splayed out over her lap as his head warmed her thighs. She could not make a proper poultice for him now, as she was reluctant to leave him, but she would tomorrow. For now, what she had would work and after he had fallen to sleep she would worry about it. The mud was scooped up into her fingers and she placed it over his wounds before taking the strips from her skirt and carefully binding his arm and chest. She guided his head back to her thighs and she wrapped him and herself up in the blanket as best she could.

"Do all men who kill a lion receive such treatment?" he asked, cheekily.

"Only men foolish enough to be harmed in the process," she retorted, knowing that his own exhaustion was plaguing in. She wondered when the last time he slept was. The bags under his brilliant eyes gave way to his humanity and she knew that he was not a demigod. And yet, that made her heart beat even harder for him. She saw his back horse and assumed a traveller. A foreigner. If her stepfather knew, she would be beaten.

Caressing his head, she smiled. His hair fascinated her, for some reason. "Do you go around saving women all the time?"

"Only the women foolish enough to find themselves needing to be saved." He grinned, the feeling of her hands in his hair lulling him into a sense of security.

She couldn't suppress a grin at that, though she would get him back for it later.

"You ought to rest," she commented softly.

"So should you."

"I will. Don't worry."

_What if I open my eyes and she's not here?_ He thought to himself.

But she answered his question.

"I will check your wounds when you waken."

With that, he permitted himself to fall into a comfortable sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Sully wasn't particularly certain as to what woke him from his deep sleep. It could have been the sun. It could have been the breeze. But whatever it was broke him of his reverie with a great reluctance. He rolled around on his sleeping mat for sometime before he managed to give in to the call of the morning and facing the new day. He stared at the sky for some minutes, reflecting on nothing and thinking of everything, before he recalled the woman who had been there the night before. The woman from his dreams. Then again, perhaps last night was a dream? He shot up so his weight was resting on his hands and he felt the injury against his ribs with an audible growl before falling onto his back. Grunting in pain, he took to looking around from his place on the mat and felt frantic when he didn't find her.

_Of course she wouldn't be here. She's not my people, even if she was real._

That was when he heard shuffling from behind him and he twisted his neck awkwardly to see who was coming.

"Good morning," she said with a smile, nodding at him. "You woke while I was gone."

He nodded and flinched as he rose himself up, this time slowly so as to ease into the pain. "You promised you wouldn't leave."

A blush crept over her cheeks and he decided that he could look at that solitary sight for the rest of his times before falling into the depths of Hades.

"No," she corrected gently as he recognised one of his baskets filled in her right hand. "I said that I would be here to check your wounds when you waken. And I am here to do precisely that."

He nodded, though there was hesitation in doing that. Perhaps he had read too much into their exchange and he settled himself down as he watched her approach.

"What's that?" He referred to her basket.

"Proper herbs to heal your wounds. Don't worry. This one will hurt, but not too badly." She began to work to extract the healing properties as he watched her in silence. She felt as if he was going to burn himself into the back of her head and she was fairly certain that she was blushing brighter than a red Spartan tunic.

"You're a healer." He said.

"Yes." She waited a moment before finally looking at him once again. "And what are you?"

There was a silence between as the only sounds were from her hands and the materials she used to create the concoction. He still had not spoken when she had finished and moved to apply the goo on his wounds.

"And what are you?" she asked again.

"I am… just a man. That's all."

She smiled indulgently before placing more of the herbal mixture against his skin. His hiss made it worth it and she tried to prevent the smile from growing.

"That's all? You don't have a family? Land? What do you do? A wanderer? A musician?"

Again, there was silence and finally he raised his head to look her straight in the eyes. The penetrating gaze hit her once more and she wondered how he managed to hold her attention so intently. Did he stare at everyone like this? Conversations would have to be difficult, even if to trade grain.

"I'm just a simple man."

That's his response. By the gods on Olympus, that was all he could say and she felt herself wanting more. "Do you work?"

He was uneasy discussing anything with her. But in all fairness, she was doing him a great favour and he finally conceded. "I'm a farmer. East of here. Nothing much. Just enough to get by. No family. My father… he died in a battle. Mother is still alive. She has a small farm between my home and Sparta."

She could not stop her curious mind from controlling her mouth. "What are you doing in Sparta?"

That was a question he had been anticipating. He looked down to the side and contemplated the answer, uncertain if he would be able to tell the words of his own destiny. But the three fates and manipulated the string decided that she was already a part of it in her own way.

"Looking for something."

"Did you lose something?"

"No. I'm looking for something I've never had before."

She was wrapping his wounds, her face mere millimetres away from his own and she looked up once again.

"How will you know if you have found it?"

He cupped the back of her head and nodded.

"I think that I already have."

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David growled as he withdrew the sword once more and moved towards his opponent.

"Not bad," heckled the man.

"Spare me your grief this day, Preston. I do not care to exchange words; would rather the blows." David growled as they repositioned themselves across from one another. For a few more minutes, the only sounds exchanged were that of metal against metal, flesh against flesh, and the occasional grunt that resembled animals more so than humans.

Finally they broke apart and stared at each other. It was obvious that David was the better fighter, but Preston was quick and was a brilliant scout. Not everyone could be a quintessential tank before an army, after all. But Preston's defence had been lacking as of late and David was given the task of remedying the situation.

"So," Preston began, in between the desperate gasps and chugging down the liquid from the bucket. "Are the Cypriotes still here?"

David nodded, reaching for his own drinking gourd and guzzling the precious refreshment down. "Aye. They are staying another week."

"The king must be thrilled."

David snorted. "I suspect that he thinks he can convince one of them to take Michaela as a bride for an alliance."

Preston stared in shock at the man, as though Zeus had possessed his friend from the agoge and turned him into a swan. "What does the dear Princess think of that?"

"What do you think she said to it? 'You know that if there was any man to put me in my place, it would have to be a Spartan.'"

"Right to the king's face?"

"Right to his face, as blatant as Akhilles was to Priam."

They both began to chuckle at that, sighing contently once their laughter died down. The gods had blessed them with a pleasant wind this day. It was refreshing.

"So why doesn't she marry a Spartan?" Preston smiled.

He shrugged. "Gods gave her a weak heart. Her mother doesn't think she'll give the world a child. Most men want that."

A pregnant pause.

"Do you want that, David?"

"I don't care. If she bears me no children, I can get another wife pregnant. If she dies bearing me children, then at least I can pretend to mourn a bit. Make it worth my while."

"You've wanted her since you were children and she bested you in the fight…"

The sound of the gourd hitting the stone beneath echoed off of the chamber walls. "She never bested me! I _let_ her win."

Preston's eyes became big and he nodded softly. "Of course. How foolish of me."

"But yes," David continued. "That was when I began to desire her. That Cypriote goddess, Aphrodite, she infiltrated my heart. I would take her."

"Does the king know such a thing? I would think that he would be grateful to get the trouble maker off of his hands. Into marriage, away from his worry."

David looked at Preston with a raised brow. "And you think that I have never considered this? She is his daughter by right. She cannot go to anyone. Despite…" He stopped.

"Despite what?" Preston pressed forward, his desire for knowledge insatiable as a bitch in heat.

"Despite the fact that last night, she attacked him. And she ran away from him. Into the hills."

Preston was thoroughly shocked and they began to walk away from where wandering ears might hear. "Did anyone go after her?"

"No," he shook his head. "With her condition, she'll collapse and fall. She'll know how to take care of herself. I will ask of the king permission to retrieve her if she has not returned soon. If he says yes, I will pursue the match. It would be logical."

Preston smirked. "She might be happy for a rescuer by then. But what if she returns early?"

"You, my dear friend, must make sure that does not happen."

------------------------------------------------------------

She stared at him, his words pouring a pale of brilliantly cold water over her muscles and seizing them into nothing. "What did you say?"

He swallowed, looking down ashamed. Had he been so wrong? By the Gods, they were trying to kill him, weren't they? He was so consumed at first with verbally assaulting his conscious that he did not hear the words that matriculated from her mouth, but once he became conscious of them, he knew that there was more to their lives and chance meeting than mortals would consider.

"How is this possible? I mean, we don't know one another. I don't know you and you don't know me and if I fell for every man that could kill a lion, my bed would be more popular than a tribeswoman's. This… this can't be possible."

He caught her cheek and brought her gaze to his, forcing her to cease the outburst and take a breath. "I know that we have not met before, but don't you think that it's possible that maybe, just maybe… this is right?"

"Women have fallen for such verbal caresses before. I am not going to be one of them."

Sully's face contorted into irritation. "Listen, I know." He was not angry at her, but angry at a world that made this so difficult. Then again, if it was destined to be easy, he wouldn't have suffered from having a lion's attack or her from collapsing. "Lots of men say lots of stupid things to convince the… world… to do their… bidding…" His discomfort was blatantly apparent on his face and she found it rather endearing. "I'm not them. I'm not after you for your beautiful face. I'm after you because that beautiful face haunted my dreams. And that beautiful face looked over me as I was ill."

The blush was as bright as the tunics her people wore, and while she was uncomfortable, she did not appear to be objecting to his words. Taking a deep breath, he reached forward and cupped her cheek. It was a loving gesture.

Michaela was not used to loving gestures.

"I'm not looking for someone to warm my bed. There are plenty of furs to do that. But furs… they don't show the fire that you have."

"You were there." She said with understanding. "It was your eyes that I saw. You witnessed the exchange."

"Yes." He would not deny it.

Smiling, she looked at him with a different heart, her eyes expressing a compassion that had taken on a different form. She placed her hand over the one that was cupping her cheek and smiled. "You need food. I'll prepare it. But you need to rest."

"I have some food in my pack," he indicated over his shoulder. She was oblivious to the movement. She was rather unenlightened to most things that were now going on around them. All of the sudden, however, she was aware of his lips against her own. Warm, soft, caring, his strong hand now cupping the back of her head to guide her against him. And she gave no resistance.


	5. Chapter 5

"My King," David nodded to the man before him. "Thank you for granting me an audience."

The king nonchalantly waved his hand, indicating for the man to come forward.

"You are a great leader in the military. Far be it for me to deny you a basic audience. What was it that you needed?"

David shifted uncomfortably. Not a genuine discomfort, but he wanted the king to believe that this was not something which he wanted to broach.

"It is about your daughter, my King. Michaela. I heard the exchange between you two."

There was an audible growl that echoed in the room as he placed his fingertips upon one another and pressed them against one another. They were calloused by war, fighting and the number of men that had succumbed to his will on the battlefield which could not be predicted or assumed by any. More than 20. Less than 2000. It was about as descriptive as one could get. Regardless, the man was rather eager for his joint king to return. Only then he could return to the life of a soldier. Never were both kings gone from Sparta at the same time.

"Yes, she is stubborn." He smiled bitterly. "Much like her mother at that age. What about the exchange?"

"I know that she has not been seen in the city walls since the occurrence. I am not saying, my King, that you should send a search party. But if you would like, I can go to retrieve her."

He had said too much. The look of suspicion that crept over the king's features were blatant and curious, immediately making David feel all the more irritated at himself, and anxious at the situation.

"Why do you care what happens to my daughter?"

"She is still our princess, my King."

There was an uneasy silence. The king was obviously picking his words carefully.

"And heir to the line. Any man who marries her would be king." He raised his brow. "And man willing to face the potential of her not giving him an heir in which to continue his name."

David shifted, hoping that the king would interpret this as an uneasy man asking for a permission to see the hidden daughter. It wasn't entirely like that; then again, this wasn't an entirely normal situation. But he was saved as the king spoke again.

"She once commanded you in the fighting. Brought you to your knees."

David nodded in confirmation.

"I have always been fond of her spirit."

There was a barking laugh that echoed through the hallways. "You call it 'spirit'. I call it a pain in my side. Speak honest. Stop mincing words."

David nodded, grateful that he could now be blatant with the king. Such verbal dances were not uncommon but the wasting of words was the wasting of time and that never went over well with a Spartan.

"I want to marry your step daughter. In spite of her spirit. If anything, it is desirable. I want to marry her with your permission."

Silence once again. He could hear the king's heartbeat, he swore it.

"You want to be king."

David had to think about this. The wrong response to the statement could result in him being accidentally lost on the battlefield.

"I would not be an immortal king if I had no heir. I could not be king while you are young and thriving. But I would like to be a husband. I have not had much for... such family matters."

There was a slow nod by the king, his defined beard accentuating his movements. "It is nice to come home to a warm bed after battle." His fingertips went to his lips as he considered this, pondering what was said. "You are a good soldier. One of the best. You have come far in the chain of command. Indeed, David, you remind me much of myself. Tomorrow, his other majesty returns. The Cypriots wish for an escort back to the coast. They fear that the Athenians might break treaty. With fair suspicion. You will come with me. We will be gone a month. When we return, David, you may take a bride of your choosing."

David swallowed, his ego swelling at the comments before nodding his head. "Even if it is Michaela?"

"If anyone wants her, far be it for me to deny them."

------------------------------

He merely felt like home. There was no greater description for it. Wherever she thought she belonged - as a healer, as a woman - this man made her feel as though she was encompassed by it. Abruptly, they pulled apart. Rather, he pulled them apart.

"Did I do something wrong?" She breathed, attempting to catch her breath back as her heart jumped in her chest. This worked; it wasn't painful and frightening, but exciting and confusing and she didn't understand why he stopped. Every fibre of her being was screaming at her to reach for him once ore, while ever inch of her Spartan upbringing scolded her for giving into the weakness of imagined love; of giving into physical pleasures; of giving into a non-Spartan.

"No." He shook his head. The man, the one who had told him to come, this was what he was sent to find. She was beautiful and smart and strong. That's why he never could find happiness with the women that lived near the farm, or the girls of the village. They were strong in the physical sense, though held no candle to a Spartan woman. But they were no match for her inner strength. The strength that came from her heart; and, he would acknowledge, partially from her upbringing.

"Then... then why..." She was stumbling over her words as her lungs stumbled over the air.

"You are still a maid. I don't want you to do something that you will regret."

That was a shock. She even looked dumbfounded.

"Please... I don't want to hurt you." He was afraid that she would take this as rejection. "So much has happened since yesterday. You were running away when I first saw you. You were running away when I came upon you again. I don't want you to run away from my foolish actions."

She nearly laughed at him. And herself. Both of them. He was right; they had barely known one another.

"Maybe the Cypriots brought their goddess," she commented.

"Are you making a joke?" he teased.

She stared at him, pretending to be offended before she let herself smile. "Maybe. We should eat."

He nodded and indicated to the pack. They made themselves comfortable as they gnawed on the various foods, the silence companionable and pleasant. "Where you going to tell me what had you running faster than Hermes?"

She swallowed, as if afraid, before swallowing again. Her throat was dry and it took several attempts for the food to go down her throat. "Obligations. I still don't know your name..."

The light chuckle aggravated his wounds and he whimpered. He knew that she was avoiding the subject, but it was true. "Sully."

Her lips pursed. That name almost sounded familiar, as if she was remembering a dream that she had once experienced several years ago. But she shook it off. Perhaps she just thought that. Imagined it. "Michaela."

"What obligations could Michaela the Healer suffer from in Sparta?"

The multicoloured eyes looked at him, in an honesty that he didn't expect. "I have a stepfather. We do not see eye to eye. It makes life complicated."

He could tell that she wanted to divulge no more information so he nodded.

"What does Sully the Farmer want from Sparta?"

He looked at her, the same honesty that she had given him now heavy within his own orbs. "I think I would like a healer." He closed his eyes for a bit too long.

"You're tired. You ought to rest." She had a sympathetic look upon her face

"No, I'm fine."

She placed a hand upon his shoulder. "You need to rest. I am going to head home and see if I can get you some bread."

"Michaela-"

"I'll be fine. Don't worry." She kissed his forehead sweetly. "I know this terrain better than you. I'll be back before the moon rises her face to look upon yours."

---------------------------------------

She hadn't been gone for very long. Climbing down from the small cavern where they had been hiding had been more than she expected. How on earth had he gotten her up there to begin with, again? Alas, whatever had possessed him with that strength now required his rest, her own stubbornness preventing her from giving up as she climbed down the rocks. Their hiding place had been surrounded by some vegetation, and Michaela had not been forced to climb down the cliff to retrieve the previously acquired herbs. She had thought that it would be easy when she had first looked down. But eventually, after some struggling, a bit of cursing inside of her head, and scratching her arm, she made it to the main plateau that was the path she had been running on when Sully had found her.

Sully. It was a unique name. It sounded as though it came from the North. Or the part to the West? There were some people from the West. They lived by a River. They referred to that area as the land of the Gauls. There had been some foreigners that had come from there. Occasionally, outsiders were brought into Sparta. Fresh blood. It was possible that he was a descendant of one of those. That would account for his hair. And his eyes. Those eyes. Narcissus would long for those eyes, truly.

Michaela looked over the rocks towards the capital that was sitting there; the place that she had called home. Of course, she had enjoyed Sparta as a youngest. Inspite of her condition with her heart. Rumours of Athenian women who died at childbirth at the young age of 14 had scared her properly. Who would give a child life at that age? Spartan women were not considered mature enough until they were eighteen. Four years of difference! She couldn't imagine having a child so young. She might have broken it or something. It was a surprise that any children were born in Athens at all.

But why was she thinking about children? Her eyes turned to look at their hiding place and she blushed. Could she even have children? Would he want them? Would he even be there when she returned? But she believed his words. There was an honesty in his eyes that she had been hard pressed to see among any of her fellow Spartans when it came to "love" and such affections.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she continued down the base of the mountain by the sound of bushes rustling. Her body snapped into a defensive stance but was ultimately shocked when she saw David's friend, Preston, come into sight.

"Michaela! You're unharmed!"

The genuine shock in his voice did not help her discontent upon seeing him. Hadn't Hades claimed him yet?

"Of course I am. What do you want, Preston?"

He walked towards her, his toga doing little to help his less than grand presence. He was skinny. Period. A runner, but not a fighter. So a scout and nothing more; he would hardly rise in the army.

"I was sent by David to ensure that you were well."

"I'm humbled by concern; it being such a selfless act to send his friend to look for me." Her voice had a subtle sound of irony in it.

It was lost upon Preston.

"It's just that..." He wasn't supposed to allow her to come into the city. He looked around, his eyes calculating as he tried to stop her from her continuing her trek towards the city.

"If you'll excuse me, Preston, I am going to retrieve food. I am..." She smiled to herself before turning to look upon him with a brow raised. "I am seeking commune with the gods. To find peace and guidance with my place upon the world."

Strangely enough, Preston found himself believing her. Michaela was not one to lie. Vicious, snippy, if his friend had not expressed interest, he would have pressed suit. Though Preston would admit that he was more interested in her ties to the crown than her vivacious personality. He thought that it was even possible that David loved her. In a way.

"Communing with the gods? Are you contemplating the life of a priestess then?" He was a bit sarcastic and teasing his his voice, though when she started to walk away from him once more, his eyes opened and he went after her. "We could send you to Delphi, perhaps. Great honour, to be accepted there as a priestess."

"Yes, thank you, Preston. But I need sustenance to continue my... spiritual experience. Should you see the king, and should he express an interest, you may tell him that the gods are need of my thought."

She wasn't planning to go and see her family. Just to get food. "Wait!"

Michaela stopped and looked at him. He was acting stranger than normal, that was for certain. "Yes?" Was he always so... frantic? Twitchy? ... Strange?

"I would hardly want to deprive you of your experience. I have bread with me." He indicated to the cloth bag that was tied to his waist. "You may take it. And I will be sure to relay the message to the king."

Preston was never this helpful. And she was suspicious. But she could not deduce a reason as to why he would act like this. Narrowing her eyes, she nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll take the bread. I am not certain when I will return to Sparta. I do not know how long the gods will demand my presence."

He nodded and handed her the bag. "Of course. Thank you. I'll let David know."

That was it. Too much, the man had spoken and he hadn't even realised it. She was completely perked, her attention focused on him and she pretended to look around in defeat. "Thank you, Preston."

With that, she walked away.

-------------------------------

Unfortunately, Preston had an ego. A large one. No matter how many times he was taken down in practise, he still had the ego of a man who believed his position untouchable. Then again, considering he had a best friend who was powerful in the army, it wasn't surprising. He had the bigger friend, after all. So, believing that Michaela was being pious to the gods, praying for guidance and whatnot, Preston quickly returned to Sparta with little concern over her. It was proof that he was a failed Spartan. A true warrior never had his training leave him. That was why the men did not get drunk; they always had to return to their beds in the dark. It was why they stole away to their wives beds, as the women slept under their father's roofs instead of in their husband's house. How could they prove themselves a worthy spouse if they could not even steal away for intercourse. But now, as Preston ran back to his friend, his training left him and he did not notice the copper-haired young woman that followed him silently.

"David," he said. Michaela's head was down in the tall grasses. She saw a large spider that looked as if it was going to crawl up her arm from her hidden position and she stared, with wide eyes. Now was not the time for Arachne to take revenge!

"Preston." He nodded at the men to leave him. They were on the outskirts of the protected city, right outside of one of the entrance ways. "Did you find her?"

"Yes." Preston smiled. "She is communing with the gods."

There was a silence and David raised a brow in curiosity. "Communing with the gods?"

"I asked her if she wanted to go to Delphi. Become a priestess."

David threw his head back and laughed. Michaela was hardly one to become a priestess. "I wonder what provoked this. No matter. How are you keeping her away from the city?"

"She is communing for a few days. She isn't certain as to how long she'll be."

"Was she injured?"

Preston shook his head. "No." He was confused by the fact that this seemed to bother David. But he answered the question before he had the chance to ask it.

"How can I save her if she is not harmed? We'll stage something. In a few days."

"You're going to harm her?"

The spider was crawling up her leg now, and she was shaking with a mixture of loathing for David and disgust at her eight small feet that tickled her skin.

"Just make her unconscious. I'm leaving with the king in a week to take the Cypriots. When we return, I am permitted a bride of my choosing. He will see that I have saved her life. She will see that I have saved her life. She'll owe me. If not by his decree that I am permitted whomever I want, then she will go by the fact that she will owe me her life and the king will owe me the life of his stepdaughter."

Preston rose a brow and shrugged slightly. "It happened before. A few generations ago. Congratulations to the groom to be."

With that, the began to head back into the city walls, just in time for Michaela to jump up and rapidly hit the spider off of her leg. 


	6. Chapter 6

They were gone when her head popped up in the tall grasses. One quick check to ensure that they hadn't heard and she found that she was safe. Thank goodness.

So. That was David's plan. Michaela had become less of a supporter of David in recent years. There was a David in the old ages that had killed a giant to the east and David believed himself to be a descendant of that great king. Or at least have such leadership like qualities for the mere example of having the same name.

He certainly appeared to have the ego.

But David wanted her for a bride and wanted to use her communing with the gods as a means to serve his own purpose. Her cheeks began to flush with anger as she looked down at her hand which was clutching the bread. Tears of anger threatened her eyes, only to be immediately scolded away because Princesses do not cry, Spartans do not cry. It was not fair, though, one part of her mind screamed at her while the other part informed her that life was never fair. Throwing down the bread that Preston had offered her, Michaela began her trek towards the walls once more, her mind falling upon the memory of the attractive male that was sitting in a hidden cave, awaiting her return.

Sully had told her that she was a maid and to act foolishly would be wrong. But Sully was not threatened by his status of being a female in their society. Granted, it was in Athens where women were essentially locked up. Michaela knew that she would probably be dead by now if it wasn't for her Spartan society, as she would have been forced into marriage by her menarche and probably would have died in childbirth. But then again, now she was a princess in this life. And a man who thought himself to be a grand replacement for her father in the realm of paternity in more than just a familial way? He was trying to get rid of her.

And to such a charming man, no less. Hungry for power and willing to make her unconscious for the sake of it. The frustration became almost audible with each grunt that accompanied her movements.

By the time she was running up the stones towards Sully, she had made her decision. Fine, let David take her as a bride. But since they did not uphold virginity in such the way as the Athenians, she would give up her "prize" to someone else. It couldn't matter that much! A piece of her heart also knew that because of this marriage, there was no other way she could be with Sully. True, men had shared wives before in Sparta. A common practise. But normally for the purpose of producing a child, and always with a Spartan man.

It was the only way they could ever be together. And that's when she realised that such a prospect hurt.

Her heart was pounding into her chest and her breathing was rapid as the cloth sack of food that she had swiped from the kitchen hit the side of her thigh with each step. When she finally got to the top and towards the hiding place, she not only managed to scare Sully, but she immediately went to find his lips once more.

Sully was worried. Michaela had been gone a while. And though he would acknowledge that there was a chance for her to be held up, and there wasn't much chance of any actual harm coming to her by merely running an errand, but his heart still went out in worry.

Furrowing his brow, he looked down at his hands. He was worried about someone. He cared for someone. A woman. A beautiful woman. Was this his purpose for returning to the place that had killed his father?

His hands went down to his feet, the toughened skin from the Spartan lifestyle thick. He could barely feel the touch of his fingers over the calloses. He had to be honest with her, with himself. He was no longer a Spartan, but he was not the innocent Eastern that he pretended to be.

When he heard her racing up the steps, his immediate thought was to what had happened. She wasn't supposed to be running, that much he knew. Something was wrong with her.

But then she turned the corner and immediately went for his lips, gasping so much that it almost frightened him, he caught her upper arms and pulled her away.

"Michaela?" He asked, his eyes confused.

"Sully," she smiled, her face bright red but blatantly pale where it wasn't an attestation to her workout. She moved to kiss him once more, the bag of food forgotten at their feet, but when he pulled her away again, her face could not hide the blatant hurt at his rejection.

"You need to sit down," he said softly, letting his fingers pet through her silky hair and gently caressing her scalp with his fingers, and he sighed, but he looked at her with worry. "What happened? Everything fine?"

She was gulping for air and she felt the familiar sensation around her heart and when she looked down as Sully guided her sit, the last thing she held with her eyes were his feet, and the thick callouses that covered them.

"Your... feet..."

---------------------------------------------------------

She had been out for a while now, and Sully stared at her, waiting for her to move. She had noticed his feet. And he knew, he knew now that he had to be honest with her. He had to tell her the truth in hopes to get the truth out of her. While he had not known her for very long, granted he would not deny the obvious fact, he knew that she was upset in a way that she had never been before. The emotions had been so raw, so... blatant upon her face. He could not help but feel his heart going out to her.

Her hand moved and he looked at her softly.

"Michaela?"

"Hmm?" she responded. Her eyes opened, finding the small fire that had been built in their little sanctuary away from Sparta, the farm, the real world that held the accountable. It took several moments for her eyes to focus on the man before her. Immediately, she had no recollection to what had happened, though she still felt the lingering emotions of hatred. But it did not take a healer for her to realise that her heart had beaten too hard for her.

"Hey... you're awake. Good." His smile was restrained some and she looked around confused. The silence that they temporarily enjoyed was interrupted by the sound of her stomach. "Guess you're hungry."

"I suppose I am... I haven't eaten all day."

Sully nodded and wondered if that hadn't provoked her fainting spell. But he said nothing as he silently handed her a piece of bread on a smooth stone, along with a honeycomb that reflected gold in the flickers from the fire.

"You found honey?"

"There was a hive nearby."

A companionable silence fell between them for a moment before Michaela realised that Sully was staring at her, as if waiting for the moment she was finished.

"What?"

"I need to tell you something," he said softly, and he knew that she wouldn't be patient enough to wait until she had finished. The stone was placed next to her and she looked up at him.

"Alright. What is it?" Her hands were folded on her lap and he almost laughed at the detachment that was appearing in her eyes.

"Don't. Don't look at me like that. I want to be honest with you, but I want you to feel... something at it. Don't distance yourself."

"I'm not." Her voice was mild in volume, but curt.

"Yeah. Ya are. You're a Spartan. A Spartan woman. It's like a disease."

She nearly huffed, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. "And what do _you_ know about Spartan women?"

"A lot," his voice was louder.

"There are plenty of outsiders that claim they know everything about Spartan women! But they just hear the rumours and foolish stories from travelers that do not understand our customs."

Sully sighed, withdrawing his foot from under him and placing it in front of her to inspect.

She noticed the thick skin that was on the bottom of his foot. Her mouth dropped open slightly as she looked at his hands and noticed that they were hardened, normally from a sword. The fact that his right arm was thicker than his left arm. His upper arms that were covered with faded scars that she had originally dismissed as working scars, but knew they were from sword play, specifically the sword play that a young Spartan boy would experience in the agon (did you mean these games??).

"I know... a _lot_ about Spartan women." His voice was controlled and he stared at her, waiting for her reaction.

"You... you're a Spartan." Her voice was quiet with disbelief.

"I was." His voice was soft, waiting still for her reaction.

"No one stops being a Spartan... unless..."

"Unless they die. Come back with your shield or upon it."

The silence between them was accentuated by the crackling of the fire, each second passing as though an hour and the next flicker of sound being all the more loud to their anxious ears.

"You deserted." She had only heard of it as a threat. She had never known a person who had actually deserted. It was... practically unheard of, a strange concept.

"In a way." His voice was controlled. "I wasn't in battle, but I saw my father being killed and I knew I couldn't live this lifestyle..."

She looked from side to side, the tears starting to threaten the ducks that did not want to permit them access. It was a great crime in Sparta. Men were killed if they returned after abandoning their fellow soldier. It was NOT done, period. End of story.

"My father would have killed a man like you!" She said, her voice quiet but fierce, accusing with every syllable.

His eyes looked at her confused.

"My father could never comprehend a man who walked away from his fellow Spartan, leaving them to die!" She didn't even notice the curiosity in his eyes. "Deserters are murderers! Any lost in battle! You... you were not honest with me!" Her voice choked slightly and she tried to swallow down at least a small amount of passionate emotions that were running through her veins, but failed.

Sully recalled that Michaela's real father had died, though she had been very obscure as to the details of it. He dismissed it as the memory being too painful for her.

"Men like you kill other men. My father died defending his kingdom and Spartans, not cowards!"

His head shot up as he looked at her. "What do you mean?"

When those words escaped his lips, she suddenly realised what she had said. Sully incorrectly interpreted her realisation as confusion.

"What do you mean your father defended his kingdom?"

She did not move, nor answer him, staring at something behind him that held no shape nor form. She had never told Sully who her father had been. She didn't want him to know. At first, it was merely logical. No one would ever attack a princess of Sparta, but one need not advertise such a thing, either The end of this line is a bit confusing to me, sigh.).

"Your father was not a simple soldier." His voice was controlled.

"Why are you changing this topic?" She said, suddenly worried. What would he think of her in such a way?

"Your father was important." He wanted her to answer it without him asking.

Closing her eyes, Michaela nodded. Sully noticed how tired she still looked from the ordeal and wished that they had waited to have this conversation, whatever this conversation could be called.

"My father... was Josephus."

"Your father was king?"

She nodded.

"You're the princess." 


End file.
